


The Taste You Love

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon returning home early from a trip to visit his rowdy relatives, Frodo is surprised to find Sam in his kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste You Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written July 2006 for Hobbit_smut's "Express Train to Hobbiton" Challenge. My prompt was "margarine". It was left to the writer's discretion whether their assigned anachronism was obvious or well-concealed. *grins* I don't think you'll have any trouble deciding which route I chose.

It had been a wonderful holiday. Uncle Paladin truly was a marvellous host, and his idea to hold a family reunion had brought a multitude of hobbits swarming to the Great Smials in search of good food, good wine, good company and good times. _Not necessarily in that order_ , thought Frodo with a grin. But there had indeed been something for everyone at the grand gathering. The buzz of activity had sounded day and night for the three weeks he'd managed to stay. He had a feeling the festivities would continue for several more days -- weeks even, given hobbits' love for a good party, but as for himself, well, he could only stand so many dowagers pinching his cheeks, so many well-intentioned suggestions that so and so would make him a lovely bride...

Even his beloved cousins had started to grate on his nerves. Not that it wasn't always a pleasure to see them, but, honestly, there was such a thing as too much of a good thing. Merry and Pippin separately were a handful. Put them together, give them the opportunity and... and the result was a forgone conclusion. Trouble. Trouble with a capital 'T'. Not a day -- not an hour! -- went by without one or the other of them (and, more likely, the pair of them) pulling some mischievous prank or playing ringleader in some outrageous adventure.

Furthermore, what with a veritable host of fauntlings popping out of the woodwork at the gathering, there was no shortage of miscreants more than happy to emulate their older cousins' sorry behaviour.

 _Really! How many frogs can one find in one's bed, and still think the trick amusing?_ Frodo huffed. "I'm far too old for such foolishness," he sighed.

And so he had said farewell to various and sundry cousins, aunts, uncles, great-uncles, great-aunts and innumerable friends, had fondly kissed Merry and Pippin and bade them mind they didn't burn down the smial or have the Shirriffs set upon them, and then had taken himself and his un-rested bones off on the journey home a full fortnight before his scheduled departure.

The silence was magnificent. The solitude a blessed relief. There was a smile on Frodo's face as he hiked cross-country, taking the shortest route back to Bag End. How surprised Sam would be to see him return so soon. How wonderful it would be to be to see Sam again. He had missed his gardener's gentle companionship, his quiet, unassuming ways. He'd missed cups of tea in the garden, sitting in the shade with Sam as they waited for the worst of the heat to pass. He missed Sam's cheerful whistle as he moved from flowerbed to flowerbed; he missed his gardener's voice raised in song as he clipped his way along the verge...

Frodo missed fresh flowers on his nightstand, a fire laid in the hearth to stave off the lonely nights and pillows fluffed to his liking in his big feather bed. He missed scones like Bilbo used to make, the recipe passed on to the Gamgee family years before Frodo ever set foot in Hobbiton. He missed fresh picked berries and homemade jam. He missed someone fussing over whether he needed to take a cloak along with him because there was sure to be a chill in the evening air even though the heat of the day was stifling. Most of all, he missed those rare occasions when he spent hours reading Elvish tales to a most appreciative audience of one...

Frodo paused in mid stride as sudden realization struck him. He had thought himself homesick, longing for the comforts of home. But, in truth, it was Sam that he longed to see. Beautiful, golden Sam. There was no greater comfort in his life than Samwise Gamgee. What a fool he’d been not to realize it sooner!

And with that illuminating thought, came the urgent need to see his dear friend; to assure himself that Sam was well; to search for an answering gladness in Sam's eyes that they were together again. Frodo hurried along the path, his feet almost flying now. Home. He was almost home. Just beyond that hill lay the road to Hobbiton. Perhaps a furlong more, and he'd be within sight of the familiar landmarks of that sleepy town... Sandyman's mill and the narrow bridge crossing The Water, the Old Grange and, best of all, Bag End itself, nestled like a jewel in The Hill...

Even though his mind knew that his smial would lie cold and empty, that Sam would be about his chores elsewhere since there was no master at Bag End to require his presence, Frodo's heart insisted there would be smoke rising from the chimney, a hearty stew bubbling on the hearth... He would fling open the kitchen door, and Sam would turn from the stove with a smile on his lips to welcome his arrival. Half a dozen steps would carry Frodo across the room, his pack dropped by the door, forgotten, as he and Sam hastened towards each other. Their glad cries would mingle as their lips met and then and only then would Frodo know that he was really home...

~*~

A thin wisp of smoke was indeed curling from Bag End's chimney, and Frodo noted it with a pleasant little twinge of surprised delight as he trotted across the Party Field, eschewing a formal approach up Bagshot Row for the homier and nearer entrance of Bag End's garden door. More a distortion of the air than actual smoke, it indicated a fire was burning hot and clean. The kitchen window was opened wide, no doubt to let the heat escape. The door was flung open wide as well, the window clearly not providing sufficient ventilation. Frodo silently followed the curving path though his garden, curious to discover what exactly was going on in his kitchen, and mildly alarmed to find activity of any sort taking place during his absence. But as Frodo approached the large field stone that served as his doorstep, and he was granted a clearer view, all of his anxiety melted away. For the interloper was as familiar to him as his own name... and twice as dear.

It was Sam. Tendrils of wet hair clung to his neck and cheeks as he moved about the room. His weskit lay carelessly discarded over the back of a chair. His sleeves were rolled up past the elbows, exposing strong forearms, lightly dusted with a growth of golden hair. His homespun shirt was unbuttoned and hung open in the front, revealing an even more entrancing arrow of hair pointing its way down towards his belt line. Perspiration plastered the rough fabric to his back, emphasizing a rippling play of muscles as the industrious hobbit moved from stove to table to counter.

Though Frodo did not -- could not -- utter a sound, so dumbfounded was he by this incredible sight, some sixth sense must have registered his presence, for Sam's head lifted from the scrap of paper he was intently studying, and his bright eyes locked with Frodo's frozen gaze.

"M-Mr. Frodo!" Sam stammered. Consternation fluttered across his face, followed by a swift red tide that flushed both cheeks to rival a hot coal's glow. In the few seconds that it took for Sam to fumble his buttons closed and make himself more fit to be in his master's presence, Frodo noted that the blush extended down his neck and chest. "I didn't expect you back so soon, sir. I--I--"

Frodo could not help but laugh aloud at Sam's dismayed expression. An answering smile twitched the corners of Sam's mouth at this evidence that his master was not totally displeased by the sorry state of his kitchen and his servant's disarray.

"Welcome back, sir," Sam said, hastening to relieve Frodo of his knapsack. "Shall I put the kettle on? A good cup of tea would go down well, I'm thinking. You look that tired out, if you don't mind me sayin' so. It's far too hot a day to be out tromping across the Shire. You must be exhausted..."

"That would be perfect, Sam," Frodo replied, "It was indeed a long, hot hike. But I can't say that it's a great deal cooler in this room."

"That it's not," Sam agreed ruefully.

Frodo caught Sam's quick glance towards the counter and a range of crockery and measuring spoons as the gardener efficiently pored a steaming cup of chamomile tea and set it on the table before him. "Don't let me interrupt what you were doing, Sam," he said softly. "Clearly you have some work ahead of you before you're finished here."

Sam gave a grateful nod and scooted back to his mixing bowl.

"Whatever are you making?" Frodo asked, nose crinkling as he picked up his tea and crossed the kitchen. Something foul was simmering on the stove. He cautiously raised the kettle's lid, and peered inside. "Tallow," he said blankly. "You're rendering tallow? Whatever for? Candles?"

"It's for the Gaffer," Sam replied, tongue peeping from one corner of his mouth as he concentrated on measuring out ingredients. "His stomach has been paining him something fierce lately. I noticed most times it happens he's been drinking milk, or slathering butter on his bread. It's not setting well with him, and that's a fact. He has to cut back on the dairy. Weaning him off the milk was easy enough -- he'd much rather have a good strong mug of ale anyway. But he's that fond of butter. Swears he'll never give it up. Never mind that he's awake half the night tossing and turning from the sharp pains in his belly."

"Surely you don't expect him to switch to lard?" Frodo settled the lid firmly back on the pot, and moved closer to the open kitchen window, hoping to catch a flower-laden breath of fresh air.

"No," Sam grinned. "That wouldn't set well with his innards. But dry bread isn't to his liking either. So I have to find away to get around that. I've been talking to the goodwives down at market. Margie Tubsworth was kind enough to share an old recipe that's been in her family for generations. It's for a butter substitute. She says it's hard to tell the difference if you do it right. But it's a blasted pain -- begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo -- to harvest all those sunflower seeds. And grinding them up for their oil isn't that much quicker a process. I reckoned I could get a head start on clarifying the lard while I dealt with the fiddly seeds."

"And, naturally, you decided to do so in my kitchen," Frodo teased.

"Begging your pardon again, sir, but I couldn't think of no other place to do this. If the Gaffer catches wind of what I'm doin', he'll turn his nose up without giving it so much as a taste. I thought I'd just set a pat of it on the table some evening, and let him sample it fair and proper like."

"A wise course of action," Frodo agreed, inclining his head in amused acknowledgment of both the Gaffer's infamous stubborn streak and Sam's ingenious plan to circumvent it.

"I'm not even letting my sisters in on the secret. They'd be fluttering around like curious chickens, offerin' advice and complainin' I was doing' it all wrong. The Gaffer's no fool, he'd know summat was up."

"Well, this is certainly a worthy covert mission." Frodo approved. "Consider Bag End at your disposal until the task is done. And is there anything I can do to assist you? Are there any more of those sunflower seeds in need of grinding, or--"

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to help!” Sam's shock at the very notion of enlisting his master's aid in this project was clearly evident.

"You're not asking me, my dear Sam. I am freely offering you my services. After all, the sooner this task is done, the sooner your gaffer may have a decent night's rest."

"Well..." Sam dithered, obviously torn between compliance with Frodo's wishes and the desire to keep his master from menial toil. But the sight of Frodo laying his weskit on the chair beside his own, and rolling up the pristine white sleeves of his fine linen shirt to reveal slender, well-formed forearms, made Sam's jaw snap shut with an audible 'click'. Clearly, there was no arguing with a Baggins once his mind was made up.

"I have to strain the melted lard, then add in the sunflower oil. It needs to be stirred while the mixture reheats -- but it mustn't come to a boil. If you could just keep an eye on the kettle while I run down to the ice house to chip off a bit more ice, I'd be ever so grateful."

"I think I can manage that," Frodo nodded, taking up a spoon and patiently waiting while Sam swiftly dealt with the two liquids and returned the kettle to the hearth.

"I'll be right back," Sam promised, the words thrown over his shoulder as he scampered from the room. Obviously, visions of Frodo spilling the scalding mixture all over himself hastened his footsteps. But Frodo was calmly standing unharmed at his post as Sam puffed his way back into the kitchen a few minutes later, a pitcher of ice water in one hand, and a block of ice wrapped in several protective layers of tea towels under his other arm.

"Can you spare a glass of that water for yourself, Sam?" Frodo said mildly. "You're looking a mite hot and bothered."

"I might say the same of you, sir," Sam grinned. Frodo gratefully accepted the brimming glass Sam offered, hoping that the blush that tinged his face might be mistaken for the fire heating his skin.

Apparently, it did, or at least Sam made no further comment as he carefully measured a bit of ground, dried mustard and tossed it into the kettle.

"Once that's mixed in proper we'll be done with the fire," Sam promised. "Shall I take over the stirring so you can catch a breath of air, Mr. Frodo?"

"I'm fine where I am, thank you, Sam."

"Then I'll just be tidying up a bit," Sam nodded. "And mayhap get a start on luncheon. You must be starving, sir."

By the time lunch was prepared and set out on a freshly-scrubbed table, Sam declared the mixture also ready for the next stage. So he set the kettle on the steaming block of ice to cool it down while the two hobbits ate. And as Frodo related the highlights of his visit with his rambunctious cousins, and Sam brought Frodo up to date on the local gossip, they both enjoyed a simple but delicious meal, Sam only occasionally needing to rise and give the kettle a stir to ensure an even cooling process.

"That's it, then," Sam announced with satisfaction, some minutes later, poking a curious finger into the kettle. "The temperature's perfect now."

"No more foul potions to add to the brew, I trust?" Frodo teased.

"Nary a one," Sam grinned. "A good old butter churn and a little elbow grease are all we need for this final stage. That, a pinch of salt and a bit more ice water."

"But, Sam, everyone knows that water and oil don't mix. Are you positive you have the recipe right?"

"That's where the mustard comes in," Sam replied confidently. "You'll see, sir. It _will_ mix."

And, much to Frodo's surprise, it did. As he poured in the ice water at Sam's bidding, and Sam pumped the handle of the churn with a good will, the mixture slowly solidified and gained the texture of butter. Unfortunately, its appearance was quite dissimilar.

"It's white," Sam said flatly, staring with disappointment at the contents of the churn. "It looks just like the lard I started off with. The Gaffer will never be fooled by this... this ugly glob of fat. All that work for nothing..."

"I'm sorry, Sam." Instinctively, Frodo draped an arm across the younger hobbit's drooping shoulders, the move as natural as offering comfort to one of his young cousins. But none of Frodo's cousins had muscles quite as firm as Sam's, a back as broad, nor skin so kissed by working in the summer sun. No cousin's hair smelled of sunshine and flowers as Sam's always did. No cousin set his heart to hammering so hard that he feared it would burst through his chest.

As if scalded, Frodo lurched back from the tantalizing contact, and in staggering to catch his balance the knuckles of his left hand brushed against the hot metal of the kitchen stove. A sharp cry of pain and a flood of tears to bright blue eyes instantly distracted Sam from his puzzlement at his master's strange behaviour.

"You're hurt," Sam whispered in dismay, gentle fingers brushing at the wetness trailing down Frodo's cheek. "Here, let me see," he begged, attempting to draw the injured hand from its cradle against Frodo's breast.

Reluctantly, Frodo surrendered his hand and submitted to his gardener's frowning assessment of the damage.

"It's not as bad as I feared," Sam murmured comfortingly, leaning forward to blow a steady stream of air on the reddened skin. "Just discoloured, not blistered. Good thing the stove had time to cool. I reckon it stings something fierce, though."

"That it does," Frodo chuckled.

"Well, then, mayhap this lot won't go to waste after all," Sam said, nodding to the butter churn. "My Mam swore by butter to soothe a burn. Let's see if this serves as well."

"Ahhh," Frodo sighed as Sam gently smeared a generous serving of the mixture on his injury. "It serves most satisfactorily, Sam..."

Neither hobbit seemed to notice that Sam was still holding Frodo's hand with both of his own until a dollop of unused fat slid from Sam's index finger. Melted by his body heat, the ticklish drop crept further down Sam's wrist, down his upraised forearm. Frodo's eyes followed the drop's slow progress with rapt fascination. He swallowed, and quickly lowered his gaze as he realized that while he was intent on following the drop's progression, Sam was just as intently watching him.

"I... I wonder how it tastes?" Frodo blurted, and blushed to see a small smile twitch at the corner of Sam's mouth. "I... I mean... If it works as well as butter, perhaps the taste is also similar. Perhaps we could just add some kind of a colouring agent when we add the salt? Uh... pollen or something? Turmeric, perhaps? And... and herbs. Your gaffer likes herbs, doesn't he, Sam? A nice thyme flavour would be lovely. Or rosemary. Or... or... Oh!"

Sam's finger lightly traced the shape of Frodo's lower lip, effectively silencing his master's babbling. Daringly, then, Sam inserted that fingertip in Frodo's mouth as Frodo's breath exploded in a sigh. A hesitant pink tongue shyly licked the finger clean, then drew the cleansed digit further into the hot oven of Frodo's mouth, making Sam's breath catch and rasp in turn as Frodo delicately suckled upon it.

"Mmmm," Frodo moaned.

"An' would you be havin' me serve ye well now too, Mr. Frodo?" Sam's voice rumbled against Frodo's ear, sending the most delicious shiver down Frodo's spine.

Frodo released Sam's finger with a gentle popping sound and looped his arms around Sam's neck in reply. Sam's hands lowered to Frodo's trim waist. If either of them noticed the smears of grease that stained their clothes as hands wandered and their lips joined in a sweet first kiss, they did not spare that worry a second thought.

Frodo's lips were soft and pliant, they moulded to Sam's lips as if they had been specially crafted to fit. Sam's mouth was generous, as selfless and giving as was the hobbit himself. Frodo fell into the kiss without hesitation, giving into Sam's tender care every secret corner of his heart, pouring all his love and longing into the moment.

Frodo's hands were trembling as he clumsily attempted to unfasten Sam's buttons, and he hummed impatiently as he sought to defeat the stubborn fastenings. Refusing to relinquish Sam's lips, blindly he struggled with the recalcitrant garments but, as their kiss deepened, he found himself most pleasantly distracted from this task and instead his fists knotted in the fabric, pulling the willing Samwise closer, ever closer, and twining himself around the gardener much as Sam had trained the ivy to cling to the garden gate.

Somehow, Frodo wasn't quite sure how, Sam managed to efficiently unfasten both their shirts and their breeches as Frodo writhed against him. Somehow, Frodo found himself backing across the kitchen in the general direction of his bedroom, an ardent Sam pressed flat against him as he slowly retreated, their groins grinding together in a most pleasurable way.

Unfortunately, a slight miscalculation on Sam's part concerning the furniture's position in the room brought Frodo's bottom tight up against the kitchen table. At the same moment, Sam's foot bumped against the forgotten butter churn, rattling the plunger in the base.

In the instant it took for their lips to part and their eyes meet, both hobbits reached for the lid, carelessly knocking it askew as they each plunged a hand into the churn's creamy contents and generously applied it to each other's burning flesh.

 _Oh, and that feels even better than it did on my hand,_ the thought passed through Frodo's mind, just before he lost himself to the exquisite delight of Sam's touch upon his rigid flesh, and the indescribable feel of Sam's hard length wrapped in his own slippery grasp.

It was too much... too much to bear...

Frodo's seed spilled into Sam's hand and he surely would have fallen to the floor, so weak in the knees did the release leave him, had not Sam's weight kept him firmly pinned against the table's edge. Sam's member slid from his loose-fisted grasp and Frodo whimpered in protest. But Sam was smiling as he eased Frodo down until he lay flat on his back upon the table, his legs limply dangling over the edge. Like a contented cat, Sam dipped his head to lap at his master's cream... his moans of pleasure and the incredible sensation bringing Frodo quickly back to full hardness and an increased desire to give this hobbit all of himself he had to give; to make this homecoming a new beginning, a new chapter in his life that they would write, together.

"Sam," Frodo whispered, drawing his legs up and to his chest, and spreading his knees slightly apart in open invitation.

Sam's eyes widened, and he licked his lips uncertainly, torn between his desire to accept the precious gift that Frodo so freely offered, and his fear of the consequences once this seeming madness passed, and Frodo became his master again.

But the love he read in Frodo's eyes promised all the tomorrows Sam could ever wish for. In the depths of those blue eyes he saw an uncertainty that matched his own, a fear that love would be rejected, the hope that this was not all some cruel dream. With a gasp that was half joy, half filled with tears, Sam's hand stretched out to the butter churn again.

Tenderly he anointed his patiently waiting lover, and then himself. And as the tip of his cock slid past a brief moment of resistance and plunged deep into the heat of Frodo's welcoming body, Sam realized that he had never really had a choice at all. His whole life had been spent loving Frodo, in one manner or another. This was but another way to love, the best of ways, for while he might lack the proper words to speak his heart, he certainly could express himself in this way. Frodo would be left in no doubt that Samwise Gamgee loved him. And that was a fact.

The force of their bodies slapping together set the table to creaking its protest, and the crockery to rattling on the kitchen shelf.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Frodo urged.

Sam found himself in perfect agreement with this sentiment. "Yes, Frodo!" he moaned, his oiled hand slipping between them to envelop Frodo in a rhythmic caress. "Yes!" And as Sam spilled himself within Frodo, for the second time he felt the warm flood of Frodo's seed overflow his hand.

Frodo's arms came up to surround Sam and stubbornly hold him in place as he felt Sam stir from his toppled collapse atop him. Freed of the fear that his weight must be crushing Frodo, Sam sighed contentedly, and sank into the warm embrace, his face nuzzling softly against the slowly calming pulse of Frodo's heart.

"You know, Sam," Frodo murmured, tracing lazy circles across Sam's bare back with an oily finger, "I would have to declare Margie's recipe a complete success. In fact, I'd be delighted to endorse this product for the Gaffer's use, should you think my voice would carry weight in his decision."

"Really?" Sam's head lifted from the pillow of Frodo's chest, a beatific smile lighting his face.

"Indeed," Frodo grinned, lithely arching himself up until he could lick a dab of the creamy mixture from Sam's nose. "It's quite delicious, my dear. I could become quite addicted to the taste. And once we figure out a way to change the colour to a golden hue..." Frodo curled a lock of Sam's fair hair around his finger and drew Sam down to a deep and leisurely kiss. "Um..." he said, long moments later, quite forgetting what it was that he had meant to say.

"You truly like it?" Sam persisted, helping Frodo clamber back to his feet.

"Like it?" Frodo echoed, snuggling up against his lover and playfully stroking the growing length of Sam's obviously resurrected interest in the topic, "I love it!" An eager hand dipped in the churn and efficiently coated Sam's burgeoning erection with a fresh layer of grease. "As a matter of fact..."

Frodo eased himself back down upon the table and smiled. It took no further persuasion than that for Sam to eagerly follow where his master led.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo purred, as the tip of Sam's well-lubricated cock once again begged entrance, "I can't believe it's not butter."


End file.
